The Weak and the Strong
by Morninglight
Summary: From Tales of the Aurelii. Sigdrifa Stormsword, Shieldmaiden of Talos, has always despised the creature with the pleading eyes and silver tongue she spawned because it is weak. But somehow it survived Cloud Ruler and now threatens to ruin her life in Markath. But she will prove herself stronger than it. Trigger warnings: child abuse, elder abuse, implied torture.


Note: A Teyye do Aurelii one-shot, trying to get me into the mood for the next chapter, which is being a pain in the patootie to write. Trigger warnings: violence against elders and children, implied torture, child abuse and neglect.

Sigdrifa and Rustem/Isran are products of a shadow war and brutal cultures. They are not nice people, but they were also deeply traumatised.

This story should tell you how horrible the Markath chapters will be.

…

Cloud Ruler Temple, 4E 177-183

A year to the day she joined the Blades in righteous battle, Sigdrifa Stormsword, Shieldmaiden of Talos, gave birth to a small weak mewling creature that had caused so much pain and inconvenience. But she could have forgiven the burden had it been male. Irkand Aurelius, Rustem's grim dour brother, was small but he was not weak. But it was _female_, not likely to live beyond the year with murmurs of open war to the west with the Thalmor, and so she decided to apply the laws of Malacath (for all she served Talos, as had the third daughters of Half-Moon Hold since they were Nords, she was still the child of an Orc) and have the baby exposed. Rustem, son of the Blades' Grand Master, readily agreed as _he_ was disappointed in having such a skinny fine-boned brat.

To spite her, the creature survived the night and was brought inside at dawn by Ri'Myrrh, an Agent of Dibella who regarded Sigdrifa with contemptuous feline eyes. "This one is stronger than she looks," the Khajiit told the Norc as she fumed on the wide bed allocated to the First Blade's bride. "She will survive anything you throw at her."

Sigdrifa took that as a challenge. Rustem, busy with war and chasing another bride (Delphine would challenge her for her place as Hunt-Wife, no doubt, so the Norc kept an eye on her), left Aurelia's raising to others. At the best of times, Orc (and Norc) mothers were harsh because they loved their children and wanted them to be strong enough to thrive in a cruel world. At the worst of times, they actively tried to drive the weak into the grave so that others could survive. The Stormsword went even beyond that. Every time she was at the Council of Blades, she brought up the topic of culling the creature, weak with her big eyes and little tusks. Arius kept on shutting her down, doting on the child, as did Esbern the Fourth Blade.

Every time Sigdrifa found something that would surely kill the brat, she found a way to survive. Wheedling food from Esbern, endearing herself to Irkand with hugs, cuddling with the Khajiit to stay warm. Arius laughed and said she was a true Aurelii woman, steel behind silk, and assured her there was nothing wrong with the girl.

Women were meant to be strong, not the small weak creatures of the south. Sigdrifa ignored Swan-Neck with her silken robes and coiffed hair because everyone knew that Altmer were like that. But this child was born of warriors, she wasn't meant to be one of those silver-tongued Imperials. The blood was weak in her and Sigdrifa rued the day she agreed to marry Rustem instead of a good Orc man.

The times away from the fortress, fighting alongside Jonna and her people, drinking with her fellow Shieldmaiden Rikke and admiring the power of Ulfric's thu'um were the best. She met another Blade, an Altmer of all things, who faded in and out of the enemy lines like a ghost. His name was Marius Aurelius, another one of the spy-clan, but the Thalmor called him Justicar Ondolemar. It was claimed by Arius and Swan-Neck that the Northstar, Hero of Kvatch turned Grand Master turned Daedric Prince of Madness, had sent him into deep cover. But war had a way of shredding things: covers, bonds, loyalties…

The time came when Rustem, a shrewder man than others realised, stacked the Council of Blades with enough of his people to enact a particular vote. Now First Blade, with Delphine as Second and Irkand as Third, he overruled Esbern and the newly promoted Dar'saad (a fucking cat on the Council!) and ordered the culling of Arius, who'd grown weak and weary with the war he'd started. Imperials always clung to themselves when they were beyond use.

(She had to admire Irkand's sense of appropriateness. Rustem needed to kill his father to become chief of the Blades).

Marius, one night as green witch-fire bloomed to the west as the Weald burned, came to her. He was drunk, angry, bitter. "Rustem demanded my katana," he told her flatly. "I have risked my life, my _very fucking soul_, to spy on the Thalmor. If I am caught, I will be executed and trapped in a black soul gem."

Rustem had been listening too much to Delphine, who was more or less living openly as his second wife, of late. Sigdrifa vouched for him time and again with the Grand Master, but she was ignored despite being raised to First Blade. Rustem blamed her for the creature, which thrived where the stronger died.

The Shieldmaiden of Talos sighed and nodded. "He is weak," she agreed. "Unworthy of being Chief."

Marius sighed and drank the dregs of his bottle of wine. It was unwise to drink so much on the eve of battle, but a Blade stripped of his katana was no Blade at all. "He is unworthy of you," he murmured.

As a child, Sigdrifa had dreamed of becoming some Jarl's coddled bride in her weaker moments. She would have thought that the Jarls would look past their Orcish features to the strong women who would make their bloodlines great, but no one would listen. Her father had raged when she chose to take vows to Talos rather than marry some ageing merchant.

"The creature took him from me," she told the elf bitterly. "Ri'Myrrh cursed me, made her thrive where the stronger perished, made Rustem abandon me for Delphine when _I_ am the stronger."

Marius looked at her with those glassy golden eyes. "Why do you hate her so much?"

She supposed that not everyone knew about the Shieldmaidens. "I sacrificed my connection to Talos because the Grand Master and my father said this union would be good. Instead I get a worthless weakling, a worthless husband and a war we may not win."

"We will win," Marius answered, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Somehow they wound up in bed together, drunk and bitter and lonely, but for a moment Sigdrifa felt like she was wanted. Maybe it was Marius trying to piss Rustem off. Maybe Sigdrifa felt the same. But there was pleasure in it and a man who desired her for whatever reason. Rustem had always made it clear he thought Sigdrifa uglier than Malacath's left arse-cheek (his exact words).

It was 30th Frostfall, six years to the day that the war began, that the Council met for the first time, secure in their safety due to the Battle of the Red Ring having been won six weeks before. They could rebuild once the weak had been purged. Neither Talos nor Malacath had time for dross.

This time, they listened to her proposal of culling the creature seriously. Delphine and Sigdrifa were of one mind in this, as wives should be when their husband was making a decision, and Rustem wanted to win the Stormsword back because her brother Hrafn the Foe-Reaper was displeased with his conduct. The Blades needed Half-Moon's orichalcum and ebony. But Irkand, Esbern and Dar'saad refused. The creature worked her magics well.

Sigdrifa looked down at her daughter for the first time, seeing the Akaviri slant of her eyes (as all the Aurelii had), the olive-bronze skin and the frail build. Esbern was arguing that she had a quick wit for language, even if she couldn't yet even cast a useful spell, and Dar'saad was saying she could read the language of bodies and was already proficient at sneaking. Irkand simply folded his arms and stated point-blank that she was an Aurelii female and therefore should be sent to Swan-Neck at Pale Pass for training in the arts of the oiran.

"No daughter of mine will be a whore," Rustem responded curtly. "She dies, that's that."

"I'll kill her," Sigdrifa offered. Maybe if she could purge the living symbol of her weakness, she could win back Rustem's regard.

Sensing that her end was near, the girl began to cry. "Mama, Papa, I'll be good!"

"'Good' has nothing to do with it," Sigdrifa told her. "You are weak and you should die. Quit crying; Malacath despises weaklings."

Then one of the ashigaru ran in, bleeding and pale. "The Thalmor are coming!" he choked out before collapsing.

Weak, weary, unprepared, the Blades were slaughtered at Cloud Ruler Temple. Sigdrifa, knowing that the strong needed to survive, fell back once the gates were breached. Rustem had fled before then and Delphine was wasting time saving Esbern, of all people. Where the rest went, she didn't know.

Marius, clad in the black and gold of a Justicar, found her in the bowels of the Temple. "I can protect you," he promised, offering a hand.

She stared at it… and took it. There was no weakness in a widow finding another husband. _She_ was not weak. Everyone else was.

…

Markarth, Second Seed 4E 202

Ghorza gra-Bagol smiled at the thin, black-haired woman who entered her workshop at the bottom of the falls. She always had time for those of Orcish blood, even if it was weak, and enjoyed being greeted in her own tongue (even if it was a little mispronounced). Judging by the turquoise eyes and Nord height, this one came from Half-Moon Hold, a place some chiefs spat on and others allied with. As someone who'd defied tradition herself, Ghorza was always happy to trade the Norcs.

She clasped the woman's right hand, noting her arm was weaker than the left. "I had to get it regrown in Riften," the Norc admitted ruefully, her voice a rich deep contralto that purred like a Khajiit when it didn't sound like an Imperial noble's.

"How'd you lose it?" Ghorza was curious.

"A dragon ate it."

"You survived a dragon?" Ghorza was quite impressed.

"He got bored, I think," she chuckled.

"Or you were too strong a mouthful." Ghorza gestured to a bench near the forge before eyeing Tacitus in disgust. "What is that?"

"A nail?" the youth asked nervously. She regretted owing his father a favour…

"It's crap. Toss it into the scrap and try again." Ghorza sighed and looked to the Norc. "I'm sorry. He's useless. If I didn't owe his father one…"

"Orcs learn by doing; Imperials learn by reading," the Norc responded with a slight smile. "I've got some smithing books I've just finished reading. He's welcome to them if he'd like."

Tacitus nodded eagerly. "Please, yes, thank you ma'am!"

The woman held up her weak hand to forestall his grateful babbling. "I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. My organisation has need of a smith. You've got good technique, but you're pounding the nails too hard."

She looked to Ghorza, who raised an eyebrow at her. "I can supply your needs," the forge-woman assured her.

"If Tacitus becomes halfway competent, he'll be off to the Skyforge to learn how to make tantos, katanas and wazikashis," she murmured. "I am Lia gra-Half-Moon of the Blades."

Ghorza chuckled wryly. "He might be fit to forge ploughshares one day, but not Akaviri steel," she told the woman, pleased she'd introduced herself in the Orcish manner. Some mix-bloods were ashamed of their ancestry.

"We'll see. Adrianne in Whiterun can take him on…" The Blade raked a hand through her short silky hair, smearing the thick stripe of blue-green war-paint down the left side of her face that concealed a faded scar. "Sorry, I didn't come here just to steal your apprentice."

Ghorza smirked. "No worries. It's always good to meet someone unashamed of their blood and to hear the language of my people. It would do you good to learn how to speak it better though."

Lia winced, lips pulling back to reveal a delicate under-bite with Khajiit-small fangs. "Please tell me I didn't offer to marry you or something?" she asked. "I'm already taken!"

The forge-woman snickered as Tacitus took a break, taking a swig of bottled water and wiping his forehead. "No, no, I understood it well enough."

"Thank Dibella for that. My man once swore in Orcish and told Ulfric Stormcloak he'd make tender love to him instead of a hearty 'fuck you'."

Ghorza roared with laughter. "That's a common one!" she told the Norc, whose eyes gleamed with self-deprecating humour. "I'd have paid to see the Stormcloak's face when that happened!"

"Oh, the Blades Chronicler has sketched it for posterity," she responded dryly. "And even our resident Tongue laughs about it now."

"I'd heard he joined the Blades," Ghorza noted.

Lia nodded, losing the gleam in her eyes. "Solitude," she said bleakly. "Alduin himself took my arm."

"…You survived the World-Eater?" The pureblood stared at the mix-blood in awe. She had to come from Cyrodiil; rumour had it one of the Norc daughters went south to marry into an Imperial clan.

"As I said, he got bored," she answered, shuddering. "Still, he was better than what followed… which I'd rather not discuss."

"Of course." Even amongst the Orcs, some scars were not for discussion. That she survived was proof enough of her strength. "Malacath must be impressed with you."

"…Actually, that's why I'm here," the Blade answered. "I've never had my Orc test of adulthood. I've killed an ice-wraith-" She lifted a knotted leather necklace strung with three hefty ice-wraith teeth from her shirt. "But I can't make it to Half-Moon Hold. Not when things are counting down on several fronts to… well… the end of the world. Or the saving of it."

Ghorza nodded shrewdly. "You wish to be counted as an Orcish woman."

"Well, they're the only family I've got that doesn't either want me dead, actively tried to kill me or aren't the spy-clan who sold me to a late and unlamented old fart," she responded ruefully.

"Well, for the offer of the books, I'll perform the rite – but you must prove yourself to Malacath," Ghorza said. "Displease Him, He might kill you Himself."

Lia's expression was wry. "In the past month, I've flipped the bird at Molag Bal, the commander of the Dawnguard and several powerful Vampire Lords," she drawled. "What's another Daedric Prince gunning for me?"

Ghorza grinned. "You're strong. He will like that."

…

Malacath's face twisted in amused surprise as He looked down at the frail-looking Norc. Ghorza, having performed the rite with troll's fat and a daedra heart, stood back to let Lia argue her case.

"Meridia and Dibella have Their mitts on you already," He growled good-naturedly. Malacath despised the weak and passive but he respected those who were loyal to their kin, who kept their word and stayed strong in the face of ruin. "You've got a tongue that could coax the hood from Nocturnal's face. And Molag Bal wants you very, very dead."

"Molag Bal never faces the strong. He crushes the weak because they're no challenge to him," Lia pointed out. "Besides, he made me a vampire… and I not only cured myself of that, I broke his damned Soul Cairn."

Malacath roared with laughter, the sound coarse and raucous as Ghorza stared at the Blade in shock. No wonder she was unintimidated by the Prince of the Bloody Curse!

"Your mother was a foot taller than you and carried a broadsword enchanted to shock her enemies," Malacath continued once His laughter had ceased. "She killed three trolls and laid their pelts on My altar."

"How nice for her," Lia observed sardonically. "She wanted me dead because she thought me weak."

"And so we come to the heart of the matter," Malacath agreed. "You want to prove yourself stronger than your mother."

"And here everyone calls You the idiot of the Daedric Princes," the Norc murmured. "Well-spotted, Prince of the Bloody Curse."

Malacath chuckled darkly. "You're small, weak and sneak like a Khajiit."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. I prefer to think of it as being light, fast and subtle."

The Lord of the Sworn Oath snickered. "You endure in the face of obstacles that would make others weep, I'll grant you that. But I must test you in the face of your pain and rage, when you are faced with your greatest enemy and have nothing left but to bare your teeth in defiance, refusing to submit. There is a house in Markarth, a cursed one, with an altar to Bolag Mal. Survive it, destroy it… and I will recognise you as of my kind."

"And if I die, I wasn't strong enough," the Norc murmured. "I'll do it."

Malacath growled His approval. "Ghorza gra-Bagol, outfit her properly. I don't want her failing because she hasn't got a proper blade."

"Of course," Ghorza responded, honoured to be addressed by Malacath directly.

"Good. I'll know if you succeed… or retreat."

Malacath's presence vanished, leaving the two alone in the small bedroom Ghorza used for herself in the Understone Keep. Even with the Thalmor this close, the enchanted baffles she'd put in silenced any Daedric energy, and Lia was wisely wearing plain mercenary's armour. "Give yourself a day to prepare," the forge-woman advised. "I need to make your weapon anyway."

"Shouldn't I help forge it?" Lia asked. Ghorza nodded approvingly.

"You can pump the bellows. Come, little sister."

…

"Excuse me, do you know anything about this house?"

Tyranus sighed as another person ignored his questioning. The abandoned house in the heart of Markath's mercantile district reeked with Daedric energy but no one would talk to him about it. He wanted to investigate but knew he needed reinforcements – but he couldn't walk away. And sellswords thought themselves above Stendarr's blessing as a reward.

One of the refinery workers, an astonishingly ugly woman with greying black hair and prominent underbite that hinted at Orc ancestry, snorted at him mockingly. "Too weak to go inside?" she taunted.

"I don't see _you _rushing in to take a look," Tyranus retorted.

The woman scowled at him. "Fuck you, Imperial!"

"I'll pass. Even if I wasn't sworn to celibacy as a member of the Vigil, you're not my type." Keeper Carcette had always warned him about his sharp tongue…

The worker stormed up to the door, kicked the metal lock on it with a sharp strike, and opened it. "After you, Vigilant," she said mockingly.

Tyranus entered, noting that it was clean and neat with fresh food. _A Daedric cult centre!_ He looked back at the worker. "I'll pay you if you join me in checking this out."

She licked her lips, eyes gleaming. "A hundred septims. I need me some skooma."

_Lovely._ "Very well." It would wipe out his travelling fund, but at least he could hunt…

They walked through the house, Tyranus trying not to retch at the Daedric stench. Finally they reached a place where three heavy objects were flung about telekinetically, making the Imperial Nightblade dive to the floor. "Daedra!" he warned. "We need to get help!"

_"Weak. He's weak. You're strong. Crush him."_

"Shit. We need to leave. Now!" Tyranus turned towards the door.

_"No. Kill him. Crush his bones. Tear at his flesh. You will kill. You will kill, or you will die!"_

"No! Get out of my head, Daedra-"

The entwined fists of the worker, her fingers knotted together, came down on his head, stunning him.

Tyranus took a long, long time to die.

…

"Well, aren't you an ugly one?"

She ignored Logrolf's question as she led him to Markarth. The rush of proving her strength eased her better than any skooma could. She was strong and the others weak! Once she had Molag Bal's beautiful mace, she could crush anyone she wanted.

The guards at the gates ignored her, familiar with the addled Norc from the Warrens. They were more interested in the Grand Master of the Blades reputedly in the city. Perhaps enough had survived to reform the Order; the strongest of the strong. Maybe it was even Rustem…

Her lips peeled back at the thought of the faithless Redguard. She would crush him in the name of the one who recognised her strength.

They reached the house, the door slightly ajar and the scent of rot coming from it. Had Molag Bal chosen another champion? She growled, startling Logrolf.

"What is going on?"

He was old and weak. She was strong. She dragged him inside with a mighty wrench of her arm.

Down and down they went, no one inside; she couldn't smell anything but the rot. Given that Markarth stank, perhaps no one had missed Tyranus' decomposing corpse. Figured. Their noses were as weak as the rest of them.

Logrolf realised something was wrong as soon as he saw the rusted mace. "Boethiah protect me," he muttered.

_"The Pitiful One is not here to help you,"_ growled Molag Bal.

"Molag Bal. You think you can best Boethiah's faithful? I have won this contest before!" Logrolf was far too confident for his weakness.

_"Ah. But I have my own champion this time, Logrolf."_

Logrolf glanced at the woman who'd brought him here as she crackled her knuckles. This was going to be fun. "What? You!"

She shoved him into the altar, trapping him as she'd once been. "Yes."

_"Mortal. I give you my mace, in all its rusted spitefulness. Crush the spirit from Logrolf's bones. Make him bend to me."_

It wasn't even a contest. She beat him into a barely conscious pulp until he begged to be spared. Then Molag Bal demanded his soul… and he freely gave it to survive. Fool, for Molag Bal had no mercy.

When Logrolf was dead, Molag Bal rewarded her with the Mace, a thing of spiked ebony and baleful glow. She caressed its handle, glad that she had a new master who appreciated her strength, that valued her desire to take what she wanted because she deserved it.

"If I had a weapon like this at Cloud Ruler, I could have crushed my foes. I could have even killed the creature."

"'The creature'. I wasn't even a person to you, was I?"

The husky voice, raw with some emotion, made her spin around with mace in hand. A thin, black-haired woman clad in orichalcum-studded leathers, one arm smaller than the other, stood between her and the door. The symbol of Dibella hung openly around her neck, turquoise eyes blazing with contempt and pity.

_"Kill her!"_ Molag Bal commanded. _"Kill her and My rewards will make the Mace seem pitiful."_

"Repaired your Soul Cairn yet, Molag Bal?" the woman asked mockingly as the new Champion of the King of Domination tried to place her. She was familiar, achingly so, but-

_**"Dawnbringer."**_ Molag Bal's voice was thick with hatred… and a tinge of respect. _"Do you like the symmetry? Once again, you face your mother with your life in her hands."_

"Malacath wasn't kidding when He promised me a testing of my pain and rage," the… creature… noted dryly as she backed slowly up the stairs.

Sigdrifa stared at her in shock and rage. "Malacath is testing you? But you're weak!"

"…You were never accepted by Him," she breathed, revealing the secret truth that shamed her.

"I am strong!" Sigdrifa smiled nastily. "I'll beat every Orc I see until Malacath knows just how strong I am!"

"Back down. Put the Mace down, Mother. Molag Bal isn't worth it." The creature's voice quavered.

"You're already pleading for your life. Just as you did at Cloud Ruler." Sigdrifa spat her contempt. "I'm going to kill you slowly. Molag Bal will not abandon me like Malacath and Talos."

"You know… If two gods dropped you, the problem might just be with you-"

Sigdrifa howled the Battle Cry and surged into the berserker fury, escaping the tight confines of the stairwell. Her vision became misted in red as Molag Bal's voice growled in her ear, promising dominion over the world if she killed Meridia's pathetic champion.

But the creature slipped something on her finger and seemingly vanished into thin air. Seconds later, a Battle Cry hit her from the side, forcing her back into the stairwell. Sigdrifa roared and surged forth again.

In and out, the creature flickered like an illusion… An illusion with an Orcish mace, her teeth drawn back to reveal her pitiful fangs, eyes the familiar blankness of the Orsimer in fury. How the _fuck_ was she able to draw on the rage when she was technically a Nord?

Finally Sigdrifa gripped the Mace in both hands and lifted it to hammer the creature's head in… But found herself driven back with a brutal shove to the gut with the tip of the orichalcum mace, falling down the stairs until she fell against the altar of Molag Bal...

Which reflexively trapped her once the weighted metal plate at the bottom was triggered. Sigdrifa dropped the Mace of Molag Bal, helpless, hearing the King of Domination curse her for a fool.

The creature picked up the weapon consideringly… and then smiled terribly. It was Irkand's smile.

Then… "No. I'm not like that." She tossed the Mace into the cage, picking up the weapon she'd brought with her instead, waiting for Sigdrifa's fury to die down.

When it did, the creature turned out to be battered and bruised from Sigdrifa's attacks, but still standing. "I was locked into a hole during the attack at Cloud Ruler because Dar'saad shoved me in with his kit," she observed softly. "All because I made friends. Ri'Myrrh came back to me… because she was my friend. I was forgiven eating Shraa when she died, because I had to survive… and Dar'saad cared for me."

"Why won't you die?" Sigdrifa whispered. "You cost me everything."

"No, _you_ cost you everything. Father has his own reasons for hating me, but I suspect it was because Arius and Durak forced you two to marry." The creature shook her head sadly. "You two could have stopped blaming each other and worked together. You could have given instead of taken."

"Are you going to lecture me? Kill me already!"

"…No. I've proven myself stronger than you. I've proven myself stronger than Molag Bal for the third time." She smiled, but the expression was far from sweet. "Malacath? I don't know if You're listening, but-"

"I can hear you… Dawnbringer." Malacath's voice was laced with grudging respect. "Do you have the Daedra Heart and troll fat?"

"No, I left them in my boudoir. Of course I have them."

Malacath snickered. He'd always appreciated backtalk from the strong. "Smear them both over the altar and I will do the rest."

The creature obeyed as Molag Bal raged, neither of them about to do anything about it. When it was done, Malacath Himself manifested, eyes glittering with grim glee. "Take your mace and leave, Lia gra-Half-Moon," He commanded softly. "You proved yourself… and have earned Scourge."

"Thank you," she responded softly, gratefully.

_"I will take everything you hold dear and drag it into Coldharbour,"_ Molag Bal promised darkly.

"I'm fairly sure you've told a few people that," Lia countered dryly. "And look what happens every time, old boy."

When Malacath looked down at her with a raised eyebrow, she met his orichalcum eyes with a crooked smile. "What? Sometimes insults need to be delivered with a certain style."

"Dibellans!" The word was spoken in good-natured exasperation. "Go. This is not your business."

"Mother…" In spite of everything, the creature still dared to hold out her hand. "Renounce Molag Bal. I'm rebuilding the Blades. We need all the experience we can get to fight the dragons."

"Once again, you have destroyed my life!" Sigdrifa spat, the bloody gob landing on Lia's hand.

"I like to think there's a special place in Oblivion for you and Father where you'll be trapped together until the end of days," she retorted flatly. "Goodbye."

She was… really doing it. She was… leaving. Not wasting time with the pleading as she had as a child. No big eyes at Malacath, no hugs…

…It was she who was strong. The creature, with her pleading eyes and silver tongue, was the strong one!

And as she had once before, as a gangly teenager before an altar, Sigdrifa began to beg Malacath with tears and weeping. She too was strong. She only needed to prove it.


End file.
